


Slow Motion Zero Gravity Crying Over Spilled Milk

by PunkHazard



Category: Time Bombs (Podcast)
Genre: Food Crimes, Gen, Valentine's Day, just dudes who aren't ready to admit that they've got it bad for each other yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29454540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard
Summary: "So," says Teller when he opens the door, Bob standing in the hall with a plastic bag slung over one elbow and a ribbon clearly picked off some holiday candy box stuck to the front of his shirt, "welcome to Casa Teller. Sorry about the mess."Bob steps inside, gingerly making his way around a black garbage bag full of wrinkled clothes not-so-fresh from the laundromat, an overflowing cardboard box full of empty beer cans with RECYCLE scrawled in Sharpie on its side, and a small mountain of tied-up trash bags that were definitely on their way to the chute before they began piling up near Teller's boots. "No worries," Bob says, breezily plunking his haul onto the little open space on Teller's counter, "we'll make it work."
Relationships: Radio Bob & Simon Teller & Mark Midland
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Slow Motion Zero Gravity Crying Over Spilled Milk

"So," says Teller when he opens the door, Bob standing in the hall with a plastic bag slung over one elbow and a ribbon clearly picked off some holiday candy box stuck to the front of his shirt, "welcome to Casa Teller. Sorry about the mess."

Bob steps inside, gingerly making his way around a black garbage bag full of wrinkled clothes not-so-fresh from the laundromat, an overflowing cardboard box full of empty beer cans with RECYCLE scrawled in Sharpie on its side, and a small mountain of tied-up trash bags that were definitely on their way to the chute before they began piling up near Teller's boots. "No worries," Bob says, breezily plunking his haul onto the little open space on Teller's counter, "we'll make it work."

He unloads a pack of raw bacon and several bars of dark chocolate. Midland had obliviously confirmed his preferred chocolate about a week ago, though he had also mentioned not being particularly picky about it. 

"Bacon?" asks Teller, picking up the packet and reading the preparation instructions off the back. "I thought you'd get the cooked stuff when you said we'd do chocolate-covered bacon."

"It's _Valentine's Day chocolate_ , boss, it'll taste better from scratch."

"Well, first off let's get these on the stove."

Teller digs a beat-up old skillet from his cabinet and sets it on the stove, turning on one coil burner and waiting for the surface of the pan to warm. Bob tears open the packet of bacon in the meantime, dumping the entire slab of sliced meat into the pan. 

They stare at it for a few long seconds, Teller fetching a fork to poke at it until a few slices come apart. Where the meat makes contact with the pan, streaky fat begins to melt and turn transluscent. Deciding that their bacon is well on its way to cooking, Bob turns away to unwrap his bars of chocolate.

"What else do we need?" asks Teller, giving the bacon one last look before he comes to Bob with a glass bowl for his chocolate. 

Bob cheerfully breaks each bar in half as he fills the bowl. "We just melt this down and dip the bacon in it," he says. "I saw someone do it on TikTok. Super easy."

"Like, on the stove?" Teller looks over his shoulder, to where the bacon has begun to cook in earnest, oil occasionally popping out of the pan to spatter on the rusty surface of the stove. It sees very little use. "Only one of the burners works," he says.

Bob waves him off. "We can probably do it in the microwave."

"Gonna take a while," Teller points out, considering the speed at which the bacon seems to be cooking. "Let's nuke it when we're ready to assemble so it won't cool down before we can dip."

"Oh, _good_ call. What do we do while we wait for the bacon to finish?"

Teller clears the little plastic folding table in his living room area, the one that had been buried under a stack of old mail, advertisements and dog-eared magazines. He snatches up a pack of cards, the box fraying at its corners but the cards inside still serviceable, if a little bent in the center. "You remember how to play Spit?" he asks, brandishing them. 

"Oh, I _definitely_ remember how to play Spit."

* * *

After their third game (which Bob claims to have won by virtue of his youthful reflexes) both of them slump backwards into the metal folding chairs Teller uses in lieu of a couch. He claims one of his ex-wives had made off with the sofa in the divorce nearly half a decade ago. 

"It's been a while since I played," Bob sighs, laughing breathlessly. He stretches his back and his arms to loosen muscles cramped from being hunched over a table just a little too low. He takes a deep breath, then sits bold upright again. 

At the same moment, Teller glances around the apartment, sniffing the air. "Hey," he says, "you smell smoke?"

They smell a lot of smoke in their profession-- most of it with a caustic tinge to it that would probably burn their eyes and the insides of their noses if they weren't equipped for it. While plenty of bombs are well-constructed and adequately sealed, many others are found because of shoddy workmanship. Consequently, smoke is one of those telltale signs of the presence of an improvised explosive device. 

To an extent, they're both desensitized to the smell of smoke, not least of all on their clothes and jackets after a day at work. The scent rarely makes them hungry, though.

Simultaneously: "The bacon!"

They leap out of their seats, little plastic table toppling over as Bob dashes for the kitchen, where black smoke has begun to billow out of the skillet. Teller goes for his window, throwing it open to the chilly February air. In Bob's rush to move the skillet off the fire, a splash of grease sloshes over the side of the pan and onto the stove. 

It catches fire instantly, a plume of flame climbing up the side of the skillet into the pan. Bob hurriedly, but with all the care and training of a man who works with explosives daily, sets the skillet down again, and makes space for Teller to approach with a fire extinguisher he'd had stashed in the dark, cobwebby space behind some half-empty boxes of stale cereal.

"I think," says Teller, regarding the foam-covered remains of their bacon, "we're not gonna be using that." 

It's charred on the bottom, still raw on top and in the middle; some of the slices have cooked free of each other but all of it swimming in a soup of bacon fat and potassium bicarbonate. 

"Nope," Bob agrees. "Let's find something else to put in it." 

"It could've been worse," Teller comments. "Could've burned the place down!"

"It's crazy that the fire alarm didn't go off."

"Bob," says Teller, very seriously, "does this look like a building with a fire alarm system to you?"

* * *

They scour Teller's kitchen, turning up not very much in the way of chocolate add-ins, but lots of sweetener and single-serving creamers included with Teller's coffees, which he never uses. There's also a tub of margarine that's been in his fridge for about three months, all of which Bob claims could easily be made into caramel, which can then be swirled into the chocolate. 

"Well," says Teller, "let's give it a shot, then."

While Bob rips open little paper packets of Splenda and Sweet'n'Low and empties them into a (mostly) clean saucepot, Teller heats the chocolate in his microwave. He's set the timer to five minutes, but pauses occasionally when the chocolate begins to bubble and spatter, using a butter knife to stir the remaining chunks. 

"Do I just go in with the creamer and margarine?" Bob asks, taking a moment to wipe part of the stovetop clean of grease and fire extinguisher before he turns the heat back up and puts his saucepot of artificial sweeteners on. 

"I think you have to melt the sugar first," Teller says, pulling up a video on his phone and watching the disembodied hands prepare stovetop caramel. "It's gotta be boiling a bit, first."

"Okay, so a little water?"

"Sure, why not?"

Teller doesn't own a whisk, but he does own a cracked wooden spoon that adequately moves the sweetener around as it melts into the few teaspoons of water Bob had added and it begins to boil. Soon enough, when it's turned a darker brown, Bob starts ripping open each individual coffee creamer cup and pouring its contents into the caramel. "I think it's working," he says excitedly, stopping after the eighth packet and then scooping spoonfuls of margarine in after. "We've got caramel, baby!"

"Chocolate's ready to go too," Teller reports, using an old oven mitt to extract the chocolate from the microwave and put it on the counter beside Bob. He scoops about half of it into another mixing bowl, and holds it out for Bob to drizzle the caramel in. 

"Hey, boss," Bob says, unrolling a length of aluminum foil, "I've got a crazy idea."

High off their successful caramel and melted chocolate, Teller claps him on the shoulder. "Well, shoot. We've made it this far."

" _Salted_ caramel."

Teller hums. "I _do_ have salt."

"And maybe something for texture? Structure?" Bob snatches up a box of Cocoa Puffs and samples a little cereal pellet, gagging when instead of crunching between his teeth, it squishes flat instead, as if it were made of styrofoam. "Cereal is a no-go," he says.

"I've got some oatmeal in the pantry," Teller announces, pulling out a packet of apple cinnamon instant oatmeal. "Bought some a couple months ago," he explains at Bob's incredulous _You eat oatmeal?_ expression. "Doctor said I should be watching my cholesterol, and that oatmeal would help. You should start early, Bob."

"I'm good, boss." Bob doesn't bother pointing out that Teller had pulled oatmeal out of an almost entire full carton, meaning that he hasn't touched it in months either. Still, he rips open the oatmeal and dumps it into the chocolate-caramel mixture, then he empties a half-full salt shaker into the concoction, mixing as the chocolate hardens. 

Finally, Bob scoops spoonfuls of chocolate-caramel-covered oatmeal onto the sheet of aluminum foil, each of them misshappen and differently sized, but looking more or less like chunks of edible chocolate.

Then he drops the bowl into the sink, triumphantly peeling a sticky chocolate off the foil. Teller does the same, and they raise their candies in an informal little toast before digging in.

Bob breaks a piece off, hoping for it to melt on his tongue and crunching into it when it decidedly doesn't do that. The oatmeal is grainy and dry in his mouth; the caramel has separated, leaving the chocolate interpersed with grease and burnt sugar; a bundle of salt bursts open between his teeth and scatters their little crystals across his tongue. Beside him, Teller's chewing with a thoughtful, concerned expression on his face.

"So," Bob says after a second, swallowing his bite with a lot of difficulty, "we can't give Midland this."

"I wouldn't feed this to my worst enemy," Teller agrees.

"We've still got some chocolate," Bob points out, looking despondent. "But what can we even put in it?"

Teller shuffles around the contents of a drawer containing mostly plastic takeout utensils, and he turns up two little bags of peanuts he'd received on a flight to Georgia the year before for a bomb disposal conference or seminar he was required to attend. "Peanuts?" he suggests, brandishing them. "Peanut clusters?"

"Perfect." Bob picks up the remaining chocolate, poking at the cooled, set mass of it stuck to the bowl. "Let's get the chocolate melted back down."

* * *

They pile into the squad van the next morning, Bob whipping a sandwich bag of oddly-shaped peanut-chocolate clusters out of his coat pocket and presenting them to Midland, who is, as usual, perfectly on time and already inspecting their gear. "So," Bob says, "me and the boss made you chocolate."

"You _made_ chocolate," Midland repeats, looking at the shapes with suspicion. "You made it... out of what?"

"Peanuts and Hershey's bars," Bob answers. He pointedly makes no mention of the failed bacon experiment, or the failed caramel-oatmeal experiment. One thing he's learned from watching cooking reality shows: never tell the judges what you did _wrong_.

Midland's expression softens, and he smiles down at the bag of chocolate before he opens it up and takes a smaller one, popping it whole into his mouth. "'S good," he tells them, crunching it down. 

"I also got you this," Teller says, presenting him with a three-pack of Ferrero Rochers he bought at a corner store on his way to work. "Just in case you're allergic to peanuts or something."

Bob leans over to give Teller an appreciative pat on the back. _Good call,_ he whispers. 

"Thanks," Midland tells them both, opening the little plastic container of Ferrero Rocher and offering one each to his squadmates. "Here, let's all share-- and I got something for you two, too."

"Midland," Teller exclaims, feigning surprise, "you shouldn't have!"

"For us?" Bob sidles closer to him, trying to peer over Midland's shoulder while he reaches into a paper bag by his feet for a cardboard carrier tray of three hot drinks. "What is it?"

They really shouldn't be all that surprised; Midland's always been thoughtful that way, moving through life with the kind of consideration and awareness of others that makes him an outstanding teammate and a very good friend. He's always doing little things for the rest of the unit: warming up the van when he inevitably arrives ten minutes before either Bob or Teller, sharing his snacks with the team without needing to be prompted and always armed with spare wire clippers or boxcutters, should they misplace any of their own. 

"There's a new ruby chocolate latte at the café near my stop," Midland explains, taking one for himself and waiting for Bob and teller to claim the other two, "so I figured we could give it a shot for Valentine's. We're spending it with each other, anyway."

"The hell is ruby chocolate?" Teller asks, and he doesn't wait for an answer before prying off the plastic top and taking a sip of the pink foam. His expression lights up in surprise, and he takes a bolder, deeper drink while Bob samples his own.

"It tastes like there's berries in it," Bob says. "Did they put berries in it?"

Midland grins, warming his hands on the cardboard sleeve of his cup. "Nah, it's a new type of chocolate. That's how it tastes."

"That's crazy," Bob tells him, but he's beaming. 

"We just wanted to say," Teller announces awkwardly, "that we appreciate you doing this kind of thing for us all the time. Introducing new food, getting us coffee, all that stuff. It's really _broadened_ our horizons this last year. Right, Bob?"

"Yeah, my horizons are _so broadened_."

"Pleasure's all mine," Midland answers, and there's only the barest hint of sarcasm in his voice, which is as low as he can physically dial it. "Thanks for looking out for me," he says.

"No sweat, valentine." Teller winks at him. "It's what squadmates do for each other."

"Are we each other's valentines?" Midland asks, looking around the van as if hoping for someone single, attractive and not a co-worker to leap out from behind the bomb suits. "Is that happening?"

"Unless you've got one already," Bob tells him, "I think it's happening, valentine."

"Got it, we're all pathetic and single on Valentine's Day." Midland extends his cup to the other two, and they raise theirs in return. He doesn't bother fighting back a smile. "But at least we're pathetic and single together."

**Author's Note:**

> written on a prompt from @deel0909 on twitter, who produces so much good T:B content that i'm actually invested in this podcast again!!


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